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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23787964">Don't Call Me Baby (Unless You Mean It)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/propertyofthehalfbloodprince/pseuds/propertyofthehalfbloodprince'>propertyofthehalfbloodprince</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Established Relationship, FBI Agent Derek Hale, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, author plays fast and loose with timelines, so much nonsense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:00:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23787964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/propertyofthehalfbloodprince/pseuds/propertyofthehalfbloodprince</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts as a joke.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>397</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don't Call Me Baby (Unless You Mean It)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HIIIIIIIIIII--<br/>1. So as a way to get through what is happening right now, I gave myself permission to finally attempt writing this idea that has been bouncing around my head for a while now. Hopefully this little Sterek fic brings you some joy during these not so great days.<br/>2. This is my first time playing in this sandbox, so please be kind.<br/>3. Reader beware: The scenes are purposely not in chronological order.<br/>4. I'm absolutely positive someone else has written something very much like this and they probably did a better job--this is just my interpretation.<br/>5. Title comes from <em>Dive</em> by Ed Sheeran, a Sterek song if ever there was one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts as a joke.</p><p>“Ugh,” Stiles groans, tapping his beer bottle rhythmically against the grimy bar top. He rolls his eyes as Kayden—Stiles’ least favorite roommate—croons, “You sure about that, baby?” to tonight’s intended conquest. The girl flutters her eyelashes and giggles while ineffectually pushing at Kayden’s chest.</p><p>“Could he be more of a cliché?” Ashton agrees from Stiles’s other side. Of Stiles’ three roommates Ashton is the least annoying—though, in Derek’s humble opinion, that really isn’t saying much. </p><p>Stiles opens his mouth to reply but Ashton’s boyfriend pulls him off his stool. “Come dance.”</p><p>“Yes, dear,” Ashton replies with a flirtatious smile and they disappear into the mosh  pit of thrashing limbs that constitutes a dance floor at this establishment. Vincent—Stiles’ third roommate—and his girlfriend are barely recognizable amidst the throbbing mass of bodies, though he and Ashton high five as they pass one another in the mess.</p><p>Derek hates this place—college bars weren’t Derek’s thing even when he was college-aged. Now, on the wrong side of twenty-five, this feels like the place where ear drums and good decisions go to die very slow, very painful deaths. But for Stiles, he’ll grin and bear it. Or just bear it.</p><p>“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles complains as he slumps against Derek, his hand trailing along Derek’s waist and coming to rest on his hip. Something in the pit of Derek’s stomach warms at the casual intimacy of it.</p><p>This thing between them is still new. Mere months ago when Derek rolled through D.C. and Stiles had suggested they get dinner and catch up, a romantic relationship had felt like an impossibility—after Stiles’ failed attempt at a relationship with Lydia, he had spent his first year of college casually dating and if his soliloquys about the joys of no-strings attached relationships were anything to go by, he was rather enjoying himself. But one dinner had turned into two, then three, then four until Derek was standing outside Stiles’ apartment after their final dinner—the rogue Omega in Logan Circle that McCall had called him about, finally apprehended—and Stiles said goodbye with a lingering kiss. Several kisses later, Derek promised to return to DC before Stiles’ midterms.</p><p>“It sounds so <em>insincere</em>,” Stiles continues. He puts on an affected voice, “Hey, baby, you want to go somewhere quiet so we can talk?” He cackles at his own hilarity and takes another long swallow of his beer. “Like, you don’t even know each other. How do you know the other person’s an angel or baby or cupcake? And then it gets worse with actual couples,” he gestures to where Ashton and his boyfriend are grinding to an ear-splitting EDM remix of The Cha-Cha Slide. “Calling each other honey and dear—”</p><p>“Sweetie,” Derek hisses, and Stiles stops his diatribe.  Stiles is uncomfortably familiar with the reasons Derek can’t stand pet names. Why certain words nauseate him with their misleading depths and sticky sweet edges. Stiles presses his forehead against Derek’s shoulder in a show of silent solidarity that he appreciates more than any sympathetic words.</p><p>“It’s stupid,” Stiles says. “Your name is Derek, why can’t I just call you Derek and not some ridiculous bullshit?”</p><p>Derek’s eyebrows scrunch together incredulously. “Do I really need to point out the hypocrisy of that statement being made by someone who tells people to call him Stiles instead of—”</p><p>“A chosen nickname is not the same as calling you something stupid like, uh, angel face. Oh, shit, no, I like that one.” Stiles kisses Derek’s cheek. “How ‘bout you, angel face?”</p><p>Derek hangs his head in shame. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”</p><p>“Because the sex is insane.”</p><p>Derek steals Stiles’ beer. </p><p>Stiles flails unsuccessfully for the bottle while Derek drains it—just because he can't get drunk doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it. “Hey!”</p><p>“I’ll get you another,” Derek promises.</p><p>Stiles pulls out his fake I.D. and waves it in Derek’s face. “I can get my own, thank you very much.”</p><p>“Whatever you say, honeybun.”</p><p>*</p><p>It turns into a game after that. To see who can come up with the most outrageous endearment, to see who can be the most creative or original, the most annoying.</p><p>Anytime Derek stays the night at Stiles’ apartment and a new face traipses out of Kayden’s room the next morning to calls of, “Baby, don’t leave yet,” Stiles will turn to Derek over a stack of banana pancakes and say, “Pass the syrup, honey bear.”</p><p>At the grocery store when Stiles tries to force soy burgers on him, Derek shoves the box back into the freezer with a weary, “Not today, pudding pop. Good effort though.”</p><p>The weekend they spend completely naked in Derek’s D.C. hotel room, ordering room service, watching HBO, and having sex on every available surface, with Stiles hands constantly running across Derek’s shoulders as he says things like, “How are we so good at this,” and, “Right there, right there, <em>right there</em>,” and “Did you order ranch for my chicken tenders? Ah, thanks, sugar butt.” </p><p>Early in the morning, when the sky is still bruised lavender, Stiles huffs miserably as he turns off his alarm and belligerently burrows his head beneath his pillow. Derek rolls onto his side and curves around him, nuzzles his neck, whispering, “Wake up, buttercup. You’ve got class.”</p><p>Over Spring Break when they visit Cora in Argentina and they go out to eat, Stiles elbows Derek, and mutters, “Your Spanish is better than mine. Order for me, pumpkin pie.”</p><p>The night the Jeep breaks down while they’re being chased by actual fucking harpies and Stiles caresses the dashboard and placates, “C’mon, c’mon, don’t do this to me,” and Derek has to drag him bodily from the vehicle, snarling, “Let’s go, hot lips.”</p><p>It escalates to the point that one Christmas, all of Stiles’ presents from Derek are labeled To: Snuggle-saurus, Love: Dumpling. The look on the Sheriff’s face when he reads the gift tags has Stiles laughing so hard he cries.</p><p>*</p><p>They’re not always ludicrous names. By the time Stiles has graduated from GW and they’ve moved into a one bedroom in Brooklyn close to Prospect Park and a great brunch spot, but with pipes that groan every time they use the hot water, pet names of the garden variety are their bread and butter.</p><p>Snookums.</p><p>Pookie.</p><p>Mi corazón.</p><p>Muffin.</p><p>Hot stuff.</p><p>Marshmallow.</p><p>Lamb chop.</p><p>Mi amor.</p><p>Pooh bear.</p><p>There’s three months where Stiles settles into calling Derek <em>thunder cat</em> anytime he’s in beta shift. And another interminable six months where he won’t call Derek anything but <em>scoodgie fudge</em> including when they’re interrogating suspects.</p><p>Derek alternates between <em>tater tot</em> and <em>cowboy</em> for a whole year because they annoy Stiles equally.</p><p>*</p><p><em>Bae</em> reaches peak popularity during Stiles’s senior year at GW. Derek doesn’t understand the word—wasn’t babe already short enough for everyone?—but Kayden cannot stop calling his new girlfriend by the term which makes him, impossibly, more annoying.</p><p>“Wait, you think it’s short for babe?” Stiles laughs, his bare chest shaking beneath Derek’s cheek.</p><p>“It’s not?”</p><p>“No, it’s an acronym for Before Anyone Else,” Stiles explains.</p><p>Derek rolls onto his back and stretches. “I do not understand youth culture whatsoever.”</p><p>“Which is pretty astounding for a guy who spent most of his early twenties hanging out with a bunch of teenagers,” Stiles teases.</p><p>Derek groans pulling Stiles’ green and blue striped comforter over his head. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”</p><p>Stiles pulls down the comforter and kisses Derek’s forehead. “Of course not, bae.” His nose scrunches with distaste. “Yeah, no, even saying that ironically doesn’t work for me.”</p><p>*</p><p>Stiles spends the entirety of their honeymoon calling Derek <em>hubby</em>.</p><p>Derek doesn’t hate it.</p><p>*</p><p>They pick-up the keys from their barely awake realtor and head straight for their new home, Stiles pacing the train car, bouncing erratically on his heels, and generally annoying the hell out of all the early morning commuters. Their frowns turn to appreciative nods when they notice the slumbering infant strapped to his chest—no one wants to hear a wailing baby this early in the morning.</p><p>Sloane sleeps through the screech of the ancient F train braking on the tracks and the rising drone of sleepy New Yorkers in the station, only to wake as they walk by the small park at the end of their new block, the chirping of birds in the trees a siren song luring her to wakefulness</p><p>“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Stiles says as Sloane’s eyes blink open. Her tiny rosebud mouth contracts angrily as Derek pulls a bottle from the baby bag and shakes it. Stiles accepts the bottle and has it poised and ready before she can release a truly ear-shattering wail. </p><p>Sloane’s been with them for five months—five sleepless, exhausting, amazing, stressful, life-affirming, terrifying months—and she starts every day the same: demanding a clean diaper, breakfast, and snuggles. Derek and Stiles have been more than happy to provide her with every demand she makes.</p><p>She settles quickly, greedily chugging the formula. “Hey, easy,” Derek whispers, slipping his finger into her free hand. She immediately latches onto him, her tiny fingers squeezing around his as she flashes her gold eyes at him.</p><p>Derek’s heart clenches as he returns the gesture and Stiles pushes aside her cap to kiss the top of her downy head. They come to stop in front of a three-story, red brick home squished in a row of three-story red brick homes. It is the same as all the others, with its double-glazed windows and four steps that lead up to a dark blue front door. Except this one—this one with its postage stamp backyard and squeaky hardwoods and <em>multiple</em> bedrooms—is theirs.</p><p><em>Theirs</em>.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes, “we bought a house.”</p><p>“I thought we agreed no swearing in front of the baby.”</p><p>“Says the guy who rapped the entirety of <em>California Love</em> to get her to sleep last night.”</p><p>Derek shrugs, unashamed. “They barely swear in that song.”</p><p>Stiles snorts. “Yeah, but your encore performance of <em>Brooklyn’s Finest</em> on the other hand—”</p><p>Before Derek can argue the importance of musical diversity to an infant’s neural development, his Camaro pulls up to the curb.</p><p>“Yo, Dad,” Stiles calls as the Sheriff steps out, holding the door open for Scout and Padfoot to clamber out of the backseat. The dogs rush to Stiles’ side, their tails wagging excitedly as they drop to sit. They lift their wet noses in search of treats. </p><p>“Morning, boys,” the Sheriff greets, trading the car keys for the house keys and holding his hands out for Sloane. The Sheriff had taken to grandparenthood with such joy and vigor Derek was surprised he hadn’t already put in his retirement paperwork in order to move closer to Sloane.</p><p>The bright orange moving truck rounds the block as Stiles unclips Sloane from the carrier, passing her and her bottle off to his dad.</p><p>“I’ve got the babies, human and fur,” he announces, tucking Sloane close so seamlessly that she doesn’t even lose suction on her bottle.</p><p>Sloane gurgles happily as she nuzzles into her grandpa’s warmth—her scenting at five months old is better than most grown werewolves Derek’s met. The Sheriff carries her up the stairs and into the house, the dogs traipsing in his wake. From the sidewalk Derek can hear their nails tip-tapping against the hardwoods as they explore their new kingdom and Derek knows that the house will be full of golden retriever tumbleweeds and clusters of black lab fur before they’ve completely off-loaded the moving truck.</p><p>The truck comes to stop behind them as Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and curls into him, his forehead resting against Derek’s stubbled cheek.</p><p>Derek squeezes him close and exhales, “Holy shit, this our home.”</p><p>Stiles cranes forward, kissing Derek hard. “Hell yeah, it is.”</p><p>The movers loudly disembark from the truck, grumbling about the early hour and how many floors the new house has. The rear door of the truck screaming open pulls Derek and Stiles apart. </p><p>Drawing Derek towards where the movers are unloading pieces of Sloane’s crib, his eyes glittering with pure happiness, Stiles says, “Come on, stud, before they decide to just abandon our stuff on the sidewalk.”</p><p>*</p><p>Scott’s twenty-first birthday blow out is an unmitigated shitshow.</p><p>They’re all in LA assisting a triad of Alphas in getting a subset of rampaging Betas under control before Hunters descend upon Santa Monica in force. Derek takes a bite to the side and all of Liam’s hair gets burned off, but they get things under control before it gets too out of hand.</p><p>By the time the area Alphas have reasserted their dominance and peace reigns supreme, it is the eve of Scott’s birthday and Stiles, forever the world’s best best friend, throws together a birthday party for the ages.</p><p>Though only half of the attendants to the festivities can get drunk, you wouldn’t know it based upon everyone’s behavior. </p><p>Cora and Malia almost get arrested for attempting to break into a bank after Lydia off-handedly comments that she thinks neither of them can bypass the security alarms and biometric scanners. Competitive to the last, Malia slices the wires of the alarms and Cora punches straight through the biometric scanners, both of them almost getting caught when the motion detectors are triggered. Stiles takes video of them running down the street—in full coyote and beta shift form—LAPD half-heartedly chasing them.</p><p>Parrish sneaks off to ‘make a phone call’ and returns forty-five later with all of his clothes burned off and a bend to his lips daring them to ask him about it. Lydia buys him a triple-shot of tequila and talks a guy into lending Parrish his shirt and another his shoes—Lydia also collects nine phone numbers, a job offer, and two marriage proposals.</p><p>Corey, Mason, and Liam monopolize the stage at the karaoke bar much to the chagrin of every other patron. But seven songs into their 90s hip-hop tribute performance no one seems to mind anymore. Cora and Lydia challenge an entire bachelorette party to a dance off which culminates in them both being asked to be bridesmaids that May; they both graciously accept.</p><p>Stiles, Scott, and Parrish stumble into a skate park and somersault down the bowl like toddlers on a grassy hill. Derek has to intervene before Stiles snaps his neck in an attempt to use the rainbow rail like a balance beam.</p><p>Melissa, Chris, and the Sheriff leave after dinner and rejoin them around 1:00 am smelling like beer, gun powder, and C-4. They spend the rest of the night giggling uncontrollably every time one of the others says, “Waddle bird.”</p><p>Instead of being eaten, the cake gets dropped in the middle of the street and somehow lit on fire. In their search for another cake at 3:00 am, they instead order five dozen carnitas tacos from three separate taco trucks and sing <em>Happy Birthday</em> over the crumpled, aluminum foil remnants.</p><p>Scott ends the night passed out in the hotel bathtub butt-naked save for the cowboy hat on his head and bandana wrapped around his neck. Cora cackles manically every fifteen minutes when she turns on the ice-cold shower to shock him awake before she falls asleep with her legs propped up on the toilet.</p><p>Once he knows everyone is safely tucked into bed (and tub), Derek carries Stiles like a sack of potatoes to their hotel room, Stiles drunkenly slapping against the back of Derek’s thighs like they’re a drum set.</p><p>“Stiles, cut it out,” Derek demands, failing at inserting the keycard into the slot for the third time.</p><p>Stiles laughs as he whaps his hand between Derek’s legs yelling, “Salmon swim upstream!”</p><p>“I will drop you on your head,” Derek threatens, “and feel no remorse.”</p><p>“No, you won’t,” Stiles calls his bluff. “You love me too much to drop me.”</p><p>The keycard finally slides home and Derek shoulders into the room, flicking on all of the lights. He flings Stiles off his shoulder and onto the bed. “God only knows why.”</p><p>“Aw, cuddle bear, I love you too,” Stiles enthuses, popping up onto his elbows. His smile is so wide Derek can see all of his molars.</p><p>Derek divests Stiles of his sneakers. “Don’t call me that.”</p><p>“Okey-dokey, artichokey,” Stiles shouts to the ceiling, flailing his legs and kicking Derek in the stomach. “Ah, you are an artichoke! Spikey on the outside, many-layered and squishy on the inside!”</p><p>Derek grabs him by the calves to still him. “You’re never allowed to drink red-bull-vodkas ever again.”</p><p> “Hey, you aren’t the boss of me,” Stiles says, belligerently wrestling his way out of Derek’s loose hold. He rolls onto his side and catches Derek’s eye. He winks seductively and pats the bed. “You could be though.”</p><p>Derek snorts as he tugs off Stiles’ purple and green checked socks.</p><p>“Don’t think you’re up to the challenge, baby cakes?” Stiles asks, popping the button on his jeans and squirming them down to his knees before giving up the whole endeavor as too complicated. He lays back down, his eyes closing sleepily as his head hits the pillow. “That’s naked enough.”</p><p>“Okay.” Derek shrugs, moving towards the bathroom.</p><p>“Hey! Where are you going?” Stiles shouts indignantly at his back. “I thought things were about to get sexy?”</p><p>Derek laughs, loading his toothbrush with paste. “If you’re still awake when I’m done in here, let alone functioning enough for sex—”</p><p>“I’m awake,” Stiles argues drowsily, “I’m wide awake!”</p><p>“Uh-humhf,” Derek hums while brushing his teeth.</p><p>Three minutes later, when Derek crawls into bed, the sun is rising and Stiles is snoring.</p><p>*</p><p>“You know this thing you guys do is really weird, right?” Scott points out one night. He and Stiles are camped out in front of the TV playing Mario Kart on N64 while Derek and Malia are debating the merits of grilling all ten pounds of steak that’s currently in Scott’s fridge.</p><p>“You’re going to have to be more specific, Scotty,” Stiles hedges as he sends Princess Peach sailing past Wario on Rainbow Road. “We’re into some weird shit.”</p><p>“Please, stop talking,” Scott demands.</p><p>“Stop scarring your best friend, dearest,” Derek calls as he grabs all ten pounds of steak. Malia’s right, they’ll be able to finish it. </p><p>“I’m not scarring him, boo boo,” Stiles shouts. <em>Boo boo</em> has been one of Stiles’ longest running favorites. It started out as <em>boo boo baby bear cub</em> and over the intervening half decade has devolved into just <em>boo boo</em>.</p><p>“That!” Scott says, jabbing his controller at Stiles’ face. “That pet name thing you guys do!”</p><p>“What’s the problem? It’s just a joke that we have.”</p><p> “Is it a joke? Because I honestly can’t remember the last time I heard you guys call each other by your actual names.”</p><p>“Derek, tell Scott he’s being stupid,” Stiles yells over the squealing of Toad spinning out due to an errant banana peal.</p><p>“Tell him yourself, Stiles!”</p><p>*</p><p>Stiles won’t stop bouncing off the interrogation room walls. His dinner consisted of two Monsters, half a bag of Hot Cheetos, and a bag of skittles. He had refused to leave the office to go get real food for dinner because he didn't want to lose focus when they were <em>this close</em> to a break in the case—</p><p>Derek’s going to strangle him.</p><p>“But what if,” Stiles’ palm slaps against the timetable for the Q25 half a dozen times, “we’re wrong about what bus he got on.” Stiles’ fingers dance to the heavily highlighted map of Queens. “What if he took the Q46 or the 100 or God, one of the express routes—”</p><p>Stiles’ hands rake through his hair sending it standing straight. His heart sounds like it’s about to start its own garage band the way it’s banging around in his chest and his eyes are so bloodshot from lack of rest, Derek’s considering buying stock in Visine.</p><p>Stiles’ breath hitches dangerously, his lungs barely taking in air. “Or God, what if he’s—”</p><p>“Mieczyslaw!” Derek barks. Derek isn’t sure what possessed him to use Stiles’ real name, but a memory of his own restless body racing around the kitchen, knocking over chairs and lamps, shouting at Laura, scampering after Cora, and his mother’s command of, “Derek Samuel,” the only thing able to settle his jangling bones the morning of a full moon.</p><p>Maybe it’s Derek’s tone or the shock of hearing his birth name, but it has the same effect on Stiles who stills as though he’s been paralyzed by an invisible kanima.</p><p>Derek pulls himself up from the table, his hands sending the stack of security photos sliding into the pile of printed off, subpoenaed text messages—it’ll be a fucking nightmare untangling all of those. “You need to take a breath. Your heart—”</p><p>“I’m okay,” Stiles says, his shoulders sagging as he leans back against the wall where they’ve taped all the pictures of the victims. All supernatural children under the age of ten. “I’m just…I can’t, Derek, if he takes another one, I’ll…”</p><p>Derek rushes to him, grabs his face between his palms. “We’re going to stop him. But to make sure that happens, you have to take care of yourself. We can’t help these kids if we’re falling apart.”</p><p>Stiles tilts his head back, his skull connects with the picture of Renee Saurez, age 7, selkie, missing ten days. “I know. But this just feels so—”</p><p>Important. Irrevocable. Heavy. Like the end of the fucking world. All of it applies. Their unit has been up and running for eighteen months now—they have a team, an actual team of FBI agents that answer to Stiles, and a minuscule operating budget, and the impossible job of policing the darker side of the supernatural underground with minimal support.</p><p>This is their first case where the victims are children. This is also their first case where the suspect isn’t supernatural. At every site where the kids were last seen, neither Derek or Fatima, the only other werewolf on the squad, could detect a scent outside of human.</p><p>“Hey,” Derek says, gently. “Let’s get some Chinese food delivered, take a break, and come back in a little while recharged.”</p><p>Stiles’ grin is small, but appreciative. “I wouldn’t say no to some sesame chicken. Oh, God, and rice. All the rice.”</p><p>Derek laughs as he goes to the door. “I’ll ask Jefferson to call in the order. I’m sure he and Sa’id could go for second dinner.”</p><p>“Wait, uh.” Stiles chases after him, grabs his hand. “You used my name. My actual name. You’ve never done that before, I didn’t even know you could pronounce it.”</p><p>Derek snorts. “We’ve been together for almost five years and you think I don’t know how to properly pronounce your name?”</p><p>“My dad can barely pronounce it.”</p><p>“Mieczyslaw,” Derek repeats, lower, slower, easier this time. “It’s not so difficult.”</p><p>“It’s weird hearing you call me that,” Stiles says, his brown eyes gleaming with a light Derek’s missed the past few days. “But a good weird.”</p><p>Derek leans in, kisses him soft and languid. When they pull apart Stiles’ smile widens as he asks, “Can we get wonton soup too?”</p><p>*</p><p>Stiles forces Derek to watch <em>Game of Thrones</em>.</p><p>Derek proceeds to mockingly call Stiles, “My Sun and Stars,” anytime he does something to piss him off for the next six months.</p><p>And every once in a while, in all earnestness, he calls him, “Moon of My Life.”</p><p>Both make Stiles dip his chin and grin softly.</p><p>*</p><p>They haven’t had James for a full 72-hours when they get the call from their social worker.</p><p>Stiles silences it, refusing to answer. “They’re going to take him back,” he says, panic making his voice tremble as he double-checks to make sure James is sleeping soundly in his bassinet beside the bed.</p><p>Derek wants to tell Stiles that he’s being ridiculous but he chokes on the words as Stiles’ phone vibrates beneath their comforter seven more times. There’s no other reason for Paola to be calling them at 1:27 a.m. other than to tell them she had found someone else better suited to take in an orphaned blue-eyed baby werewolf.</p><p>Stiles’ phone stops ringing and they get a moment of silence before Derek’s phone starts skittering against the bedside table, Paola’s name flashing across the screen. The racket wakes the dogs, sets them pacing, all the noise threatening to wake the baby.</p><p>Derek kisses Stiles’ forehead, whispers, “Putting it off is just going to make it worse.”</p><p>He grabs his phone and hits the answer button.</p><p>“Derek, I’m so sorry to call you so late,” Paola greets before Derek can even say hello, “especially with you guys trying to get the baby on a schedule but I have news—” Derek shuts his eyes as Stiles clutches at his hand. They’re going to take James. They’ve found a long-lost relative or a straight couple who wants him or—</p><p>“Do you think you guys have the space?”</p><p>“The space?” Derek repeats. In his terror he’s missed what Paola said. “For what?”</p><p>“For two more?” Paola says. Derek can hear her heels clicking against linoleum and the crackle of a PA system, a call for Dr. Islington to Peds. “I know I’m asking a lot but—”</p><p>“You have two more babies for us?” Derek says slowly. Stiles pops up from where he’s hiding beneath the comforter, his eyes wide. Derek pulls his phone away from his ear, puts Paola on speaker phone.</p><p>“No, not babies. Two brothers, thirteen and fifteen. Older one’s human, younger one’s freshly bit. Their foster mother said she’d take Aaron—the human—back, but she won’t let Ben in her house after what happened. I could separate them, but I’d really rather keep them together. They’ve been in foster care for ten years and finding them another home that’s in the know that can take them both is gonna be hard, but then I thought of you and Stiles—” Paola takes a deep breath to continue explaining but they’re both already out of bed and getting dressed.</p><p>“What hospital are you at?” Derek asks.</p><p>Stiles calls Vincent and Claire—his college roommate and his wife, who both happen to work on their FBI team and live two subway stops away—to come stay with Sloane and James while they finish dressing, and ninety minutes later, they’re meeting Paola at the entrance of Calvary Hospital.</p><p>She leads them inside, her thick, curly hair falling from her ponytail as she explains, “Ben claims he was bit by a giant dog a few nights ago at the basketball courts in Soundview Park. Didn’t think anything of it because there are always strays—” She pushes the up button for the elevator frenetically. “—went home, cleaned the bite, and when he woke up the next day with no scabs or scars figured he had dreamed it.”</p><p>The elevator arrives with a <em>ding</em>. “The full moon isn’t for another eleven days, what happened to make him shift?” Stiles asks.</p><p>“What always happens to sensitive, quiet thirteen-year-old kids,” Paola says as the elevator ascends to the pediatric unit. “Some jackass older kid started picking on Ben, Aaron stepped in, the jackass socked Aaron in the jaw and—”</p><p>“Ben freaked out,” Stiles finishes knowingly. “Did he hurt anyone?”</p><p>“Not badly. Beat the crap out of the other kid, but miraculously he didn’t bite or scratch him.”</p><p>Derek is impressed; it took decades for him to learn control and he was born a werewolf. For this boy to exhibit that level of mastery over such overwhelming instincts is incredible.</p><p>The elevator stops, the doors open, and Derek’s eyes are assaulted by a panoply of garish colors and smiling cartoon animals asking him whether of not he’s gotten his flu shot yet.</p><p>“So if no one’s badly injured, why are we at the hospital?” Stiles asks as Paola leads them through double doors with PICU emblazoned across the glass, past the charge nurse desk, to stand in front of a wall of windows looking over beds full of sick kids.</p><p>Most rooms are dark, the children sleeping, but one room—the room they stop in front of—has all the lights on and the TV is replaying the Mets vs. Dodgers games from earlier that day. Sitting in the visitor’s chair beside the bed is a dark-skinned boy with short hair and bright eyes. His arms are folded across a Green Lantern shirt and there’s a stubborn clench to his jaw that says that it would take all the armies of heaven and hell to move him from his brother’s side and even then, they probably wouldn’t be successful.</p><p>Derek is immediately reminded of Laura and Cora and his heart contracts painfully.</p><p>The terrified looking boy in the bed could be his twin save for his slighter build, and the sharp point to his ears, the fangs jutting out over his bottom lip.</p><p>“Oh, buddy,” Stiles sighs, walking into the room without Paola’s go ahead. </p><p>Aaron and Ben are skeptical of them that first night, and the following morning when they stop at their former foster home to pick-up their things and move the boys and their three duffle bags across boroughs.</p><p>They’re skeptical of their new rooms and their new school, their new neighborhood. Aaron’s skeptical of his new basketball team and Ben of the Science Club he joins. They’re skeptical of introducing their new friends to their old friends.</p><p>They’re skeptical of werewolves and sparks, kanimas, banshees, kitsunes, and chimeras. </p><p>They’re skeptical of Scout and Padfoot for the first two days at which point the dogs take to sleeping in the boys’ beds and following them around the house more loyally than they ever followed Derek or Stiles.</p><p>They are never skeptical of James, Sloane, or Stiles’ dad who gets called, “Gramps,” within twenty minutes of their first meeting.</p><p>Their skepticism sloughs away slowly—so, so very slowly and Derek never knew Stiles could be this patient. They build trust during pick-up basketball games at the park and movie nights in the living room. Family dinners and weekly Sunday Pancake Brunch. Teaching Ben to keep his physical transformations under control and training Aaron in how to protect all three of his younger siblings with just a baseball bat engraved with runes and a handful of mountain ash. Video game marathons where Stiles teaches them all the fine art of <em>Mario Cart</em> and Ben force-feeding them anime until they’re all addicted to the same shows.</p><p>Until one Sunday morning Derek wakes up to an empty bed and a full kitchen. Sloane’s already in her high-chair and the dogs are dancing around Stiles’ feet as he flips blueberry pancakes at the griddle. Ben’s pouring orange juice and Aaron’s digging through the fridge for syrup with James balanced on his hip.</p><p>Derek is enthusiastically greeted, James passed into one waiting arm, a mug of coffee into his other hand.</p><p>He walks to Stiles, kisses him, asks, “Breakfast almost ready?”</p><p>Stiles hums a yes, leans his hip against the counter, turns towards the kitchen table. They watch as Aaron and Ben set the table, making silly faces at Sloane and tricking her into eating as many strawberry pieces as syrup drenched bites of pancake.</p><p>Aaron catches them staring and smiling. “Earth to Dads, you okay?” Aaron asks as he pops one of Sloane’s strawberries into his mouth.</p><p>Derek almost drops his coffee. Stiles does drop the spatula.</p><p>Derek tightens his hold on James.</p><p>Ben looks up from where he’s flopping a pile of forks down. “Is something wrong?”</p><p>“No, we’re good,” Stiles replies, stooping down to pick up the spatula and tossing it carelessly into the sink.</p><p>Aaron points at the griddle. “Awesome because those pancakes smell like they’re burning.”</p><p>Stiles spins, snatching up a clean spatula. “Shit!”</p><p>“Shit!” Sloane screeches from her high chair. </p><p>“I don’t think that’s a word you’re allowed to use,” Ben informs her, grinning.</p><p>Sloane holds out her sippy cup in offering to him. “Shit!”</p><p>Aaron accepts the sippy cup in Ben’s place. “Shit indeed.”</p><p>Sloane giggles and claps at hearing him swear.</p><p>Stiles carries a platter of slightly scorched pancakes to the table, announcing, “Enough unnecessary swearing. Come on, food.”</p><p>The boys crowd the table, unloading half the pancakes onto their plates and slathering them in butter.</p><p>Stiles takes James from Derek’s arms, nudges him in the side. He nods towards the table, whispers, “Didn’t do so bad, huh, babe?”</p><p>Derek looks at the table, at their kids. At Stiles.</p><p>He nods, a wet itch at the corners of his eyes.</p><p>No, not bad at all.</p><p>*</p><p>They’re in the Grand Tetons tracking a group of Ciguapa who have been disappearing campers for months when they cross paths with a pair of feral Omegas. They separated from their team, sending them to patrol the nearest campground for suspicious looking women, and have no back up.</p><p>Stiles pulls his gun the moment the female Omega flashes her blue eyes, but he isn’t quick enough.</p><p>Derek is though. He gets between them fast enough for the Omega’s claws to dig into his small intestine instead of Stiles’. She pulls back and sends her claws back in to his stomach.</p><p>Derek punches her in the side, grabs her by the hips and tosses her bodily across the clearing. The second Omega sneaks up behind him, swiping at Derek’s throat. His claws don’t go deep, but he takes a chunk of Derek’s neck and the howl that Derek was halfway through sputters off into a wet gurgle.</p><p>Stiles kills them both quickly, his shaky hands holstering his gun and coming to clamp across Derek’s throat before Derek’s knees hit the ground.</p><p>“Derek, Derek,” Stiles says, cradling Derek close. “I need you to stay with me okay, no passing out or dying—”</p><p>Derek’s eyelids are as heavy as cinderblocks and staying conscious feels like an endeavor strictly reserved for those who haven’t lost so much blood in less than thirty seconds.</p><p>“Derek! Derek!” Stiles shouts. </p><p>Derek wishes he could tell Stiles to not worry, that he’ll be alright, but his world goes dark and quiet.</p><p>When Derek wakes up he’s lying on a couch that smells like prunes and cat dander, with Stiles’ fingers running through his hair. Derek recognizes the kitsch wallpaper and the green carpet. Apparently, he was unconscious long enough for Stiles to get him back to their hotel.</p><p>“There you are,” Stiles says. His eyes are redlined and his chapped lips bitten raw.</p><p>“Hey,” Derek whispers. Speaking hurts so badly he might as well have knives slicing his throat open.</p><p>“Shh,” Stiles soothes, cupping Derek’s cheek. “Don’t talk yet. Your vocal cords got all fucked up—”</p><p>Sa’id pokes her head in from the hallway. “Boss, we’re going to head back out, do a scan before the campers wake up, see if we can find her.”</p><p>“Thanks, Fatima. Have Halloway text me updates every half hour,” Stiles calls back as she disappears back into the hallway.</p><p>Derek runs his hands over his bare torso to find his flesh reknit and whole. He grazes his tender neck and hisses, the new skin is still overly sensitive.</p><p>“How you feeling?” Stiles asks</p><p>“I’ve had better days,” Derek rasps. “Water?”</p><p>Stiles shifts Derek up into a half-seated position and holds a glass to his lips. It hurts to gulp but Derek’s freshly healed body is screaming for hydration and nutrition.</p><p>Stiles places the empty cup on the floor and rises up on his knees to press his forehead to Derek’s. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavy. “You were out for over an hour. <em>Over an hour</em>, big guy,” Stiles voice cracks as his fingers flex around Derek’s forearms.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Derek apologizes futilely, knowing he would be an absolute wreck if he had to spend a whole hour unsure if Stiles would be alright. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Now I am.” Stiles kisses his temple and whispers, “Don’t ever fucking do that to me again.”</p><p>Derek squeezes the back of his neck and says, “No promises.”</p><p>Stiles kisses him on the mouth, whispers, “You asshole,” against his lips.</p><p>*</p><p>Derek wakes up to Stiles murmuring soothingly from the other side of the room. There’s a perfect moment of silence, absolute stillness, and then the bed is rocking like it’s been hit by a seismic rift. There is something cold pressing against Derek’s nose and a panting in his ear.</p><p>Derek’s eyes fly open to discover a golden ball of fluff nudging its way beneath his chin. He sits up rapidly, the puppy tripping into his arms with an excited yip, her tail a joyful blur. Derek flashes his eyes at the pup to settle her only to set her off into a deeper fit of joy. “Stiles—”</p><p>Stiles’ smile is blinding. “Happy birthday, honeysuckle.”</p><p>“It isn’t my birthday,” Derek says as the puppy flops about in his grip, searching for purchase against his chest.</p><p>Stiles shrugs. “Semantics.”</p><p>The puppy props herself up, finds a spot of interest on Derek’s chin, and begins licking. Derek’s hand strokes the her back automatically. “Are we even allowed to have a dog in this apartment?”</p><p>“I paid the pet deposit yesterday,” Stiles replies, plopping down onto the mattress and scratching behind the puppy’s ears. Her tail whips against Derek’s ribs with every wag.</p><p>“You got us a puppy?” The puppy tilts her head as Derek meets her gaze; he’s a goner already. “Without talking to me about it first?”</p><p>“I got <em>you</em> a puppy as a birthday present,” Stiles corrects. “And look at this face.” Stiles squishes the puppy’s face between his fingers. “I couldn’t say no to this face, could I, Scout?” Stiles gives the tip of Scout’s nose a smacking kiss. “They were going to put her down if no one adopted her that day! An eleven-week-old puppy! How was I supposed to say no to that?”</p><p>“You named the puppy you got for me?”</p><p>“She came with a name already.”</p><p>Derek snorts at the blatant lie, cradles Scout closer, kisses the top of her silky head. “You know they probably played you, right?”</p><p>“I don’t even care because now we have a puppy!”</p><p>*</p><p>Stiles never calls Derek <em>sweetheart</em> or <em>sweetie</em>, knows they’re a trigger of epic proportion and gives them the wide berth they deserve. </p><p>He attempts to use <em>champ</em> but grimaces afterwards, says, “No, that just makes me sound like your parent.”</p><p>Derek, buried up to his elbows in case files, unthinkingly replies, “Alright, Daddy,” </p><p>Stiles goes uncharacteristically still before grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him to their bedroom. </p><p>They don’t leave their bed for 36 hours, crack their headboard, and earn themselves four noise complaints.</p><p>*</p><p>“Why is your palm sweating?” Stiles asks, tugging Derek into the restaurant. </p><p>“Stiles,” Derek growls, wondering if it’s too late to fake sick. He pulls at the collar of his henley, straightens his jacket—he’s never met a significant other’s parents before and he’s freaking the fuck out. Sure, he’s met the Sheriff before and they got along just fine when he wasn’t in handcuffs. But now Derek knows what Stiles looks like naked and he feels like the moment the Sheriff lays eyes on him, he’s going to know that Derek now has this information and immediately begin planning a murder that can easily be passed off as an accident.</p><p>Stiles puts in their name with the hostess and returns to Derek. “Are you okay? You looked better that time you asked me to hack off half your arm.”</p><p>Derek grits out, “I’m fine.” He glances around skittishly. “Isn’t your dad supposed to be here already?”</p><p>Stiles eyes widen as he gleefully crows, “Oh my God, you’re nervous! I cannot believe you’re nervous, that’s so—” </p><p>“Shut up, Stiles.”</p><p>“—adorable. All around werewolf badass Derek Hale is nervous for dinner with my dad! Is it because he arrested you before or because you’re boning his only son now?”</p><p>The elderly women sitting beside the hostess stand waiting for their table to become available perk up at that.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek hisses. He can feel his cheeks and neck flooding with color. The waiting area of a D.C. <em>Olive Garden</em> was not where he thought he’d die, but here he is, moments away from perishing from sheer embarrassment.</p><p>Stiles kisses his cheek. “Chill. My dad likes you! Just because we’re—”</p><p>The elderly women lean forward on their bench.</p><p>“I’m begging you to lower your voice,” Derek pleads.</p><p>“—together doesn’t mean he’s going to hate you now.  You have nothing to worry about. Plus, D.C.’s out of his jurisdiction, so it’s not like he can show up with his gun.”</p><p>“He’s going to shoot me the next time I’m in Beacon Hills!” Derek declares, wild eyed. He can feel his fangs pushing against his gums.</p><p>“Holy shit, Hale,” Stiles grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Do you need a Xanax? Would that even work or would your metabolism—”</p><p>“I’d burn right through it.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought, but still. Relax,” Stiles smooths a hand down Derek’s chest, stops it over his heart. Instead of soothing Derek, it sends his pulse racing faster. </p><p>Another reason Derek’s freaking the fuck out: he’s 98% sure he’s already in love with Stiles and he’s 100% sure five months into a relationship is too early for that.</p><p>“My dad is not here to scare, threaten, or murder you or whatever else you think,” Stiles assures him, as the bell above the door merrily tinkles the arrival and exit of more restaurant-goers. “He had use-or-lose leave days and he decided to come to D.C. to visit me. When I talked to him on the phone earlier he said he slept until 2:00 this afternoon, the guy’s on vacation and hella chilled out right now. You couldn’t ask for a better meet the parents set-up, really.”</p><p>Derek glares but inhales deeply, unclenching his muscles by small degrees.</p><p>Stiles bops him on the nose and says, “You’ve got nothing to worry about, lover.”</p><p>At that exact moment there is a loud throat clearing at Derek’s back. “Uh, hi, son, Derek,” the Sheriff says gruffly. </p><p>Derek cringes. The elderly women clap their hands over their mouths, enraptured.</p><p>“Really?” Derek sighs. “That was the moment you chose for that particular word?”</p><p>Stiles shrugs, allowing the awkward moment to roll off his shoulders. “Could’ve called you something worse.”</p><p>“How?” Derek pleads. “How is there a worse thing for you to have called me?”</p><p>The Sheriff’s hand lands on Derek’s shoulder. “Trust me, you don’t want the answer to that question.”</p><p>*</p><p>The insult-interlude, as Derek fondly refers to it, happens a year after Stiles graduates GW.</p><p>They’re working overseas, tracking a band of púka that have stepped off the deep-end of mischief into cold-blooded murder leaving a trail of bodies from D.C. to Dublin, when they hit another dead-end.</p><p>“This is just fucking spectacular! I can’t believe we lost him!” Stiles cries as people swarm around them. The wails of fiddles and guitars overlay peals of drunken laughter drifting out of every pub window, eliminating any advantage Derek’s hearing would give him . The neon lights of the city reflect one-hundred fold against the rain-soaked cobblestone streets and it hurts Derek’s eyes if he looks at them too long. “Did you see where he went?”</p><p>“No,” Derek growls as he swivels his head in the other direction. Maybe the púka backtracked to Trinity College—</p><p>“Can you get a scent on him?”</p><p>Derek gestures to the people passing them by—a group of drunk, giggling women clearly out for a Bachelorette party, tourists walking with their phones held up and pointed in every direction, a huddle of men stumbling and jeering their way between pubs. “With all these other people? No.”</p><p>“What is the point of all of your supernatural senses if you can’t keep track of the suspect?”</p><p>“You’re kidding me, right?” Derek asks. “You can’t possibly be blaming me for this!”</p><p>Stiles fingers dig into his longer than usual hair. It’s curling around his ears and at his nape and Derek wishes he would never cut it again. “Of course I’m not blaming you, but this is our first major op since I graduated NAT, we can’t fuck up or they’ll pull our funding and technically, we don’t exist in the first place—”</p><p>Derek grabs his shoulders and shakes him gently. “I know what’s at stake, baby cakes.”</p><p>Stiles doesn’t even fight his grin. “You are such a fuckwad sometimes, you know that?”</p><p>“I actively work towards it, so thank you for noticing,” Derek growls, mouth twitches into smirk. “Now let’s go see if we can find this guy before he hurts anyone else, assface.”</p><p>Stiles knocks their elbows together, says lovingly, “Douchecanoe.”</p><p>It continues for the next three week.</p><p>Cockweasel.</p><p>Fuckwit.</p><p>Jerkoff.</p><p>Douchecanoe.</p><p>Twatwaffle.</p><p>Fucktrumpet.</p><p>Assmunch.</p><p>Shithead.</p><p>Pisshat.</p><p>Fuckmuffin.</p><p>Douchenozzle.</p><p>Son of a fuck.</p><p>All said with glowing adoration, usually followed by a kiss.</p><p>It all comes to an end when they’re banned from the family-run deli at the end of their block for their use of crass language in front of small children. Stiles whines all weekend about having to travel farther for bagels and schmear. </p><p>*</p><p>“Der, oh God—” Stiles breathes, voice fluttery as his eyelids.</p><p>Derek eases him down to the pillows, kisses his neck, and slows his thrusts to a lazy pace. “You okay?”</p><p>Stiles whines, circling his hips desperately. “Am I okay? Der, why are you slowing down, why are you—” Derek worms an arm beneath the small of Stiles’ back, angling him upward as he meets Stiles’ movements with deadly accuracy.</p><p>Stiles arches off the bed so severely, his only point of contact with the mattress is his head. His eyes are wide and glazed, pupils blown as he meets Derek’s gaze and says, “Babe, I’m gonna—just like that—<em>holy shit, Der</em>—”</p><p>Later when they’re laying shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the ceiling, their breathing still coming in heavy pants, Derek says, “You know you only call me—call me that in bed.”</p><p>Stiles snorts, reaching for the half-empty water bottle on the bed side table. “I called you babe at the grocery store yesterday.”</p><p>“No, not babe,” Derek corrects, accepting the water bottle hanging above his head.</p><p>“Oh, Der?” Stiles asks, shifting onto his side to face Derek, his legs flopping uselessly with the motion. It will be a quarter of an hour before either of them attempt standing. </p><p>Derek empties the water bottle and nods.</p><p>“Well, I mean, that’s because when I call you Der it’s not… it’s not a joke.” Stiles’ cheeks already ruddy from exertion and orgasm, flame anew. “I dunno, it just feels...”</p><p>Private. Sacred. Theirs.</p><p>Derek cups Stiles’ neck, his thumb brushing along his jaw as he sighs, “Yeah.”</p><p>*</p><p>It isn’t just Derek who gets nicknames.</p><p>Stiles calls the dogs outrageous things like <em>bubba shark</em>  and <em>wiggle butt</em> and <em>boofle snoot</em>. They also answer to names such as <em>angel baby</em> and <em>sweet boy</em> and <em>floof monster</em>.</p><p>Their kids are not immune to Stiles’ affectionate nicknaming. Kid, kiddo, buddy, nugget, ladybug. The list is endless.</p><p>When they’re all suspiciously well-behaved they get leveled with, “Why are you so quiet, demon spawn?”</p><p>When they’re all behaving like demon spawn they get a dry laugh and honey-toned, “Let’s see you keep acting out without your cellphones, chickadees.” </p><p>When they’re running late, Stiles  will call for them by shouting up the stairs, “Avengers Assemble.”</p><p>When they’re not running late, Stiles will call for them by shouting up the stairs, “Avengers Assemble.”</p><p>Derek is still the only one he’ll call <em>scoodgie fudge</em> though.</p><p>*</p><p>Stiles goes up to Boston for Lydia’s Bachelorette Weekend. His plane leaves Thursday evening and by Friday afternoon Derek is irritated by how much he misses him.</p><p>He’s in bed reading with Scout passed out across Stiles’ side of the bed, her tail swishing soothingly against the sheets, when his phone rings.</p><p>“Hello?” Derek begrudgingly answers; he desperately wants to stay in bed instead of dealing with a rogue werewolf in Astoria or a Kelpie ravaging the Hudson at this hour.</p><p>“Hey, babe,” Stiles’ voice is a rocking timber in his ear.</p><p>Derek straightens up, the sudden movement startling Scout awake. “Are you okay? What time is it?”</p><p>“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Stiles replies. “It’s barely midnight.”</p><p>Scout hears Stiles’ voice and begins whining as she wriggles her way into Derek’s lap. “Ah, Scout, no. Careful.”</p><p>“Oh, how’s my wiggle butt doing?” Stiles asks. Scout barks directly into the receiver and Stiles croons, “Hey, baby girl, how are you?”</p><p>Scout huffs her displeasure at being able to hear Stiles but not see him. Derek understands the feeling.</p><p>“She’s fine,” Derek answers as he wrestles Scout onto her side for a less kidney-crushing cuddling position. “But I don’t believe you are if you’re calling me instead of dancing in a club wearing a hat shaped like a penis that lights up.”</p><p>“It’s a sash that says Man of Honor but all of the letters are spelled out with hot pink penises.”</p><p>“Classy.”</p><p>There’s a lull of silence punctuated by the lazy thump of Scout’s tail against Derek’s leg and the muffled shuffle of Stiles’ feet against concrete. “Mieczyslaw,” Derek prods gently.</p><p>“I miss you,” Stiles whispers, vehement like he’s disclosing a state secret. “Like, I don’t want to be that guy who can’t function without his husband for one weekend, but babe, I think I might already be that guy.”</p><p>Derek smothers his smile against the crown of Scout’s golden head. “I miss you, too.”</p><p>“No, you don’t understand,” Stiles ploughs on, “this morning at Lydia and Dave’s place I couldn’t get their Keurig to work so I called for you to come help, but you weren’t there so I just didn’t have coffee until Dave woke up and saved me from my caffeine-less existence.”</p><p>“Keurigs are not difficult to work—”</p><p>“Fuck you, they have a different one than we do with all these buttons that don’t actually do anything. You know what, forget what I said, I don’t miss you at all!”</p><p>Derek laughs deep in his belly. “Keep telling yourself that, babe.”</p><p>*</p><p>Every member of Stiles’ apartment gets mono the week before Spring Break their junior year.</p><p>“How?” Derek asks from the front door as he surveys all four of them lying across one another in their cramped living room. Derek and his supernatural immune system are braving the quarantine zone to bring them actual food.</p><p>“I’m dying,” Stiles groans like a harpooned walrus. He is upside down on the couch, his legs hanging over the back, his head on the same pillow as Vincent.</p><p>“Stop yelling,” Vincent whines, placing a hand over Stiles’ mouth.</p><p>“How?” Derek asks again as he kicks off his shoes and edges into the kitchen. When he spots the overflowing sink, his gut tells him he’s found the culprit. Stiles and his roommates are usually good about maintaining a clean apartment, but none of them can stand doing the dishes. </p><p>Derek’s willing to bet his entire bank account that these idiots have been re-using and sharing their utensils and cups for the last month in a bid to avoid washing the dishes.</p><p>He hastily clears the table of textbooks and laptops and unloads the soup and grilled cheese sandwiches he brought. “Food,” he barks in their general direction.</p><p>Kayden flops to the floor like a dead fish when he attempts to leave his armchair. Ashton and Stiles laugh uproariously but then complain because laughing hurts. Vincent covers his ears and moans, “Shut up.”</p><p>Stiles shuffles into the kitchen and bypasses the table full of food, tucking himself in Derek’s arms. “I don’t feel good,” he says, setting his sweaty forehead against Derek’s neck. His hair is greasy and his skin feverish and he smells like he hasn’t showered all week.</p><p>Derek hugs him tight, whispers, “I know, sugar plum.”</p><p>“Ugh, please don’t be cute,” Kayden says as he trips into a seat at the kitchen table.  “I already feel like shit, I don’t need you two adding to my need to up-chuck.”</p><p>“Eat your soup and shut the fuck up, Kayden,” Derek growls.</p><p>Vincent, still on the couch, cries, “Why is everyone shouting?”</p><p>*</p><p>Derek’s head is threatening to split in half. He’s never felt such intense, consistent pain before. Radiating from behind his eyes down his skull like a stream of fire, he’s certain his head is about to crack in half like an egg.</p><p>“Take some Excedrin,” Stiles suggests, hoisting James more securely against his shoulder. He pats his back gently, burping him after his bedtime bottle. “And Ben,” he slides his cell phone across the kitchen table, “call Aunt Lydia, she’ll help you with that.”</p><p>Ben nods, shoving his notebook into his textbook. “Feel better,” he says, gingerly clapping Derek’s back before scurrying into the living room, already dialing Lydia’s number on FaceTime.</p><p>Derek collapses against the table—his entire night has been so consumed by this singular set of math problems that he even missed Stiles reading Sloane her bed time story.  He hated math when he had to learn it and he hates it even more now that he has to relearn it along with his kids.</p><p>His head throbs in time with the beating of his heart. “I’m a werewolf, how do I have a migraine?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Derbear,” Stiles murmurs, coming over and kissing the back of his neck, “but eighth-grade Algebra has defeated better men.”</p><p>The distant sound of Lydia explaining how to graph systems of equations is dampened by tired footsteps dragging into the kitchen. “What’s wrong with Dad?” Aaron whispers, opening the fridge and grabbing a drink.</p><p>“He was helping Ben with his Algebra homework. Or at least attempting to help.”</p><p>Derek groans as he sits up. “I resent that. I helped get him to the last two problems.”</p><p>“Proud of you, babe,” Stiles says, pulling the Excedrin from the drawer by the dishwasher and tossing it across the kitchen. He eases James from his shoulder and into the crook of his arm. “Maybe next year you’ll be ready to tackle Geometry with him.”</p><p>Aaron groans in sympathy. Like Derek, math is not his strong suit. “You want to edit my English paper on metaphors in <em>A Tale of Two Cities</em>? Will that make you feel better?”</p><p>Derek tilts his head in consideration. “It actually might.”</p><p>Stiles chuckles, “Look at you, forty-five and finally a good student.”</p><p>“At least I didn’t write an economics papers on male—”</p><p>“Dad!” Ben screeches as he skids into the kitchen on his socks, Stiles’ phone held high in one hand—Lydia’s grinning face turned towards them—and his open text book in the other. “You got the right answer! The answer section in the book had it wrong!”</p><p>“Seriously?” Derek, Stiles, and Aaron ask, shocked.</p><p>“Honestly, who do you believe when it comes to math? Me or a textbook?” Lydia scoffs.</p><p>“Look at you,” Stiles says, bumping his hip against Derek’s shoulder. “Maybe you will be able to handle Geometry next year.”</p><p>Ben, Aaron, and Lydia snort, “Yeah, right.”</p><p>*</p><p>Derek doesn’t want to make it a big deal, but… it’s a <em>big deal</em>.</p><p>He hasn’t said those words—<em>those words</em>—out loud to another person since the fire. And the fact that he has found himself in a situation where he actively wants to say them is monumental. The fact that the person he wants to say them to is Stiles makes it all the more important.</p><p>Because this thing between them—this thing they’ve been doing for over a year now, Derek’s pretty sure this is permanent. Like, forever. And instead of being afraid of it, instead of running away to the Himalayas and hiding from his feelings as originally anticipated, Derek’s <em>ready</em>.</p><p>So ready in fact that he just says it in the middle of Stiles’ rant about his fears for the upcoming <em>Star Wars</em> movie.</p><p>“Did you just say ‘I love you’ while I was in the middle of bitching about the possibility of them making Rey Luke’s long lost daughter?” Stiles asks, wild-eyed.</p><p>“Yes?” Derek replies wondering if he should’ve waited until later, until after the expensive dinner at the fancy restaurant like he had planned.</p><p>Stiles lunges across the couch, grabs Derek by the neck, and doesn’t let him go until he’s thoroughly kissed him. He pulls back, pressing their foreheads together, and breathes, “I love you, too.”</p><p>Derek’s fingers flex around Stiles’ hips, his cheeks aching from how hard he’s currently smiling. “Well, that’s—that’s good.”</p><p>Stiles frames Derek’s face with his broad palms, his fingers tangling in his hair. “This feels like a huge moment, like a huge moment that I should be wearing more than stained sweatpants for?”</p><p>“You want me to take it back? Let you go put on a button down?”</p><p>“Ah, ah, ah, no take-backsies, mon cherie,” Stiles says, “you put it into the universe, much like the force—”</p><p>Derek groans, flopping back against the cushions. “Seriously? You’re going to keep talking about <em>Star Wars</em>? Right now?”</p><p>“Um, yeah, you did interrupt a very important point I was making,” Stiles argues.</p><p>“And what about this point?” Derek asks, grabbing Stiles beneath his thighs and standing up from the couch.</p><p>Four hours later, Stiles wakes from his post-coital nap and retakes his <em>Reasons Rey Cannot Be Skywalker Progeny</em> soapbox. Derek smiles at the ceiling as he listens to the man he loves.</p><p>*</p><p>They spend their fifth wedding anniversary in pure silence. Derek is no longer sure what they’re fighting about, but he is sure he’s right. </p><p>It’s a Sunday so they don’t even have work to distract them. Stiles huffs and puffs over breakfast while Derek reads the news on his tablet. Derek lets his irritation be felt as he slams the door closed when he takes Scout and Padfoot for a run after lunch.</p><p>There’s a peaceful détente mid-afternoon when Stiles stumbles across a rerun of <em>Speed</em> while channel flipping and they settle on opposite ends of the couch to watch. </p><p>Derek makes dinner as has become their anniversary tradition; Derek is a terrible gift-giver but great in the kitchen and usually makes a five-course meal instead of attempting to buy something Stiles will never use.</p><p>Stiles appears in the doorway when the scent of bacon-wrapped scallops overwhelms the entire apartment.</p><p>“That’s not fair,” he complains as he sidles up to the counter.</p><p>Derek shrugs as he stoops to check on the chicken.</p><p>“Really? You’re going to keep up the silent treatment?”</p><p>Derek snaps the oven shut and meets Stiles’ eyes, raises his eyebrows.</p><p>Stiles groans so loudly it startles Scout and Padfoot from their dog beds, drawing them into the kitchen. Stiles settles a hand on Padfoot’s head, plays with his ears, and says, “If you’re going to regress back to Eyebrow Derek then I’m going to return to teenage Stiles, and we all know how un-annoying—”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, please, no,” Derek says, offering Stiles a glass of wine as a peace offering. “Truce?”</p><p>“Fine, but only because of the food,” Stiles concedes reaching for the bacon-wrapped morsels. The dogs circle their legs like sharks around a kill. “I’m sorry I was an asshole.”</p><p>“I honestly don’t even remember why we weren’t speaking to each other,” Derek admits.</p><p>“It’s because I said—” Stiles cuts himself off with his wine glass. His cheeks are the same color as the merlot as he says, “Neither do I, mon petit chouchou. Neither do I.”</p><p>After they’ve eaten dinner and are doing the dishes, Stiles crowds into Derek’s space and shimmies suggestively. “So, traditionally the fifth anniversary is the wood gift—”</p><p>“I swear to God if you make a boner joke—”</p><p>“Hey, if you don’t want to receive your gift with good grace—”</p><p>“God, I think I preferred the silence.”</p><p>*</p><p>Derek isn’t sure when it stopped being a joke, a game of one-upmanship, a dizzying contest of annoyance. </p><p>When the babes stopped being insidious inside-jokes about other people’s insincerity and became genuine endearments. </p><p>When ridiculous, outlandish name-calling became soft, soothing words of comfort.</p><p>When babe and big guy became as synonymous with Derek’s person as his actual name.</p><p>When their friends stopped groaning at the ridiculous pet names and started smiling softly at them.</p><p>Derek isn’t sure when it happened, only knows that now when Stiles shouts, “Hey, babe, have you seen my keys?” he doesn’t roll his eyes at the endearment, instead he’s already going to help Stiles shuffle the hall cabinet aside to see if his keys fell behind it.</p><p>*</p><p>Derek has plans for Stiles’ 40th birthday. Sexy plans.</p><p>And if Stiles’ morning wood is anything to go by, he is on board with Derek’s plan.</p><p>“Oh, good morning,” Stiles says as Derek kisses down his neck.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” Derek whispers, “old man.”</p><p>Stiles gasps with fake outrage. “Who you calling old man, old man?”</p><p>Stiles had spent the entirety of Derek’s 40th birthday sucking his brain out through his dick so Derek wasn’t even left with two brain cells to rub together let alone to think about getting another decade older. </p><p>But their life is different now and though they can’t spend the entire day in bed, a morning blowjob can absolutely happen. </p><p>It’s still early and Derek’s teasing across Stiles’ hips when they hear it. The crash of pots and pans coming from the kitchen followed by the booming barks of the dogs, and an overloud, “SHHH! Padfoot, Scout, stop!”</p><p>“Jay! No!”</p><p>“Ben, catch him, dude.”</p><p>“Jay, get back here!”</p><p>“Sloane, stop, you’re going to wake them up—”</p><p>There’s the patter of little feet and a screech like a pterodactyl. Derek emerges from beneath the comforter smiling.</p><p>“Incoming,” he says just as their bedroom door cracks open and two small bodies catapult themselves towards the bed.</p><p>Stiles leans forward and catches James midair.</p><p>“Daddy!” James hollers as he collides with Stiles’ chest.</p><p>“James!” Stiles greets happily. “What are you doing out of your crib?”</p><p>“Daddy birf’day,” James tells Stiles seriously before nose-diving into Derek’s arms. Padfoot and Scout lazily pad into the room and settle with huffs at the foot of the bed.</p><p>“James, no, you’re ruining it,” Sloane complains as she climbs up the mattress and wedges herself between Stiles and Derek, her blonde hair frizzing out spectacularly from her braid. She puts on her big sister voice and explains, “You were s’posed to wait for us!”</p><p>James ignores Sloane preferring to gnaw on the collar of Derek’s t-shirt.</p><p>“So this feels super lame now,” Aaron announces from the doorway, Ben at his side, a tray laden with breakfast food and two mugs of coffee in his hands. Aaron may be the one with a learner’s permit but the beginnings of puberty have already stretched Ben well past Aaron’s height. Derek is astounded by how quickly they’re growing up. “But, uh, Happy Birthday.”</p><p>Stiles beams brighter than the barely risen sun that is fighting through their blinds. “You guys—”</p><p>Ben nudges Aaron forward with his elbow. “Here, we made you breakfast.”</p><p>“I helped,” Sloane corrects haughtily.</p><p>“We all helped,” Ben inserts diplomatically.</p><p>Aaron settles the tray on the bed and scoops James up into his arms. “Here. Don’t get out of bed. You’re both a combined eight million years old now, don’t want you breaking a hip—”</p><p>“Watch it, kid,” Stiles warns as he accepts his birthday breakfast.</p><p>“Come on, Slo-poke,” Ben holds out a hand to Sloane. “Let’s go.”</p><p>“You’re not going to hang out with me on my birthday?” Stiles protests as Sloane scrambles down the mattress.</p><p>“This is your present from us,” Aaron says, trying to keep the squirming eighteen-month-old in his arms safely held against his chest. “Breakfast in bed. And some peace while you eat it. We’re still all going to the park though, right?”</p><p>“Da’ par’,” James squeals, thrusting his tiny fists victoriously into the air.</p><p>The kids shuffle out of the room, Sloane screaming the Happy Birthday Song at the top of her voice, Ben providing a screechy harmony.</p><p>The toast is slightly burnt, the eggs runny, and the bacon undercooked. It’s still one of the best breakfasts either of them have ever had.</p><p>*</p><p>Stiles hands skitter across his desk like pale spiders on a quest for something to write with. “Dude, can you pass me a pen?”</p><p>Derek flings a pen across the narrow aisle that separates their desks—their unit finally got an actual office with shitty furniture and grimy windows to operate out of, but with all ten of them and their desks jammed into the space it’s a tight fit.</p><p>The pen hits Stiles square between the eyes. “There you go, <em>dude</em>.”</p><p>“Really?” Stiles asks, scrubbing at his forehead and uncapping the pen with his teeth. “You’re okay with my calling you my cuppy-uppy-uppy cake but dude annoys you.” Pen cap clenched between his teeth, Stiles starts scribbling his signature across a stack of documents. “For a werewolf you have some strange sensibilities.”</p><p>“That’s what I said when he married you!”</p><p>“Shut up, Halloway,” Stiles and Derek shout to the far corner where Halloway has been sequestered from the group. The guy may be a half-fey tech genius with a slew of invaluable black market connections but that doesn’t save him from being super fucking annoying.</p><p>“I’m just saying, <em>dude</em>,” Stiles continues as though uninterrupted, “it’s weird.”</p><p>Derek swivels in his seat to lob a stack of folders at Sa’id in an attempt to hide his reddening ears and neck from Stiles. “I just don’t like it.”</p><p>“I don’t get why, I call everybody dude and it doesn’t bother anyone el—" The scratch of Stiles’ signature stops as Derek spins back, a new set of folders clutched in his hands. Stiles is grinning, ecstatic. “Holy shitballs, you don’t like me calling you dude because that’s what I call everyone else!”</p><p>“No, that’s not it at all,” Derek hedges, turning his attention to his blank computer screen.</p><p>Stiles stands and extricates himself from behind his desk and crosses to Derek’s desk. He sets his hands down on top of the new case files. “You can’t lie to me. I know you.”</p><p>Derek snorts. “Know me well enough to keep calling me dude after eleven years together?”</p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude, babe, don’t act like—holy shit, dudebabe! That’s what I should call you.”</p><p>Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek cringes. “Please don’t.”</p><p>“Why not, dudebabe? Would you prefer Brobabe? Babebro?” Stiles thinks on it for a moment, shakes his head, then returns to his desk. “I think I’m going to stick with dudebabe, it has a certain <em>je ne sais quoi</em>, you know?”</p><p>“No, no I do not,” Derek says, watching Stiles fight with his chair, folding his long legs beneath his too short desk</p><p>Stiles reacquires his pen and jabs it at Derek earnestly. “Give it a week, dudebabe. You’ll learn to love it.”</p><p>Taking a long drink from his coffee, Kumar turns himself sideways in order to fit through the passage between Stiles' and Derek's desks and says, “Anything’s better than scoodgie fudge.”</p><p>Derek face-plants into his files.</p><p>“I really enjoyed scoodgie fudge,” Halloway offers from his corner.</p><p>The whole office hollers, “Shut up, Halloway!”</p><p>*</p><p>A door slamming shut rips Derek into consciousness.</p><p>His hands fist a blue and green striped comforter and his eyes squint against the blinding midday light coming through the curtain-less window. The room smells like sweat, sex, and Stiles.</p><p>And for some reason Fruity Pebbles.</p><p>“Good morning, star shine, the earth says hello,” Stiles greets, climbing back into his bed, stark naked and carrying a monstrously large bowl of cereal. He props himself up against a stack of pillows and rests the bowl in his open palm—it’s a minor miracle he doesn’t slosh milk everywhere. He offers Derek a bite of rainbow cereal. Well, that at least explains the smell.</p><p>“What—what time is it?” Derek asks, dropping back against the mattress.</p><p>“Two-ish,” Stiles replies around a mouthful of pebbles.</p><p>“That late?” Derek groans. McCall has him flying out to New Orleans to investigate a possible siren situation in less than five hours. He hadn’t wanted to sleep away most of his last day with Stiles, but his consulting with the FBI is still tenuous, he can’t cancel on McCall—not when there are murmurs of a permanent supernatural unit.</p><p>Stiles shrugs. “What’d you expect? We didn’t get to bed until almost six a.m.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “Well, we actual got to bed at three but we didn’t try going to sleep until almost six.”</p><p>Derek cracks his neck and pulls himself up into a sitting position. Through Stiles’ bedroom door, Derek can hear the sound of Kayden calling, “Baby, don’t leave so early,”  after the off-beat clatter of high heels against hardwoods. God, Derek can’t wait until Stiles no longer has roommates—</p><p>“I can’t believe he got that girl to agree to come home with him,” Stiles says, shaking his head. Derek thinks of the girl Kayden was talking to the previous night at that bar with the terrible music and awful dancing that stank of cheap beer and onion rings. Remembers their discussion of pet names and Stiles creative usage of angel face throughout the rest of the evening.</p><p>Derek leans forward, stealing Stiles’ spoon. “Well, he is quite the sweet talker, babe,” Derek offers as he takes three heaping bites of cereal.</p><p>Stiles snatches his spoon back and croons, “Baby, baby, baby, I think he’s so obsessed with the word so he doesn’t have to learn all their names.”</p><p>“It’s a solid theory, Stanley.”</p><p>Stiles claps his hand over his mouth to stop a Fruity Pebble explosion from erupting across the bed. Still laughing, he says, “Fuck you, man.”</p><p>“Don’t you mean, fuck you, babe?” Derek asks as Stiles sets the cereal bowl on his bedside table.</p><p>Stiles wriggles under the comforter until he’s crawled on top of Derek. “No, I mean fuck you, angel face.”</p><p>Derek smiles, grabs him firmly by the hips. “I hate that name, honeybun.”</p><p>Stiles response is lost in a flurry of sheets and inarticulate shouting as Derek flips him onto his back and kisses the next outrageous name out of his mouth.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1. Credit to that tumblr post--you all know exactly which one I'm talking about--for the "dudebabe" idea. That shit had so much Stiles Stilinski energy I had to add it to this.<br/>2. Hope you enjoyed it, kudos and comments always welcome.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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